


Did It Ever Really Mean Anything?

by roughentumble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughentumble/pseuds/roughentumble
Summary: Geralt goes along with Jaskier to meet some of his Oxenfurt friends, and comes to realize he isn't the only one Jaskier gets touchy-feely with or calls "dear heart".The realization that those gestures don't mean what he thought they did-- that he seemingly doesn't mean as much to Jaskier as he thought-- leaves him a pained, pining mess.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 478





	Did It Ever Really Mean Anything?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I messed with the timeline to put Priscilla in here, since I can't picture any of this happening all the way in the timeline of TW3 and she's a game-exclusive character anyway(this is more of an "incredibly nebulous time during the Netflix show's adventures" type setting) but I like her! So I wanted to use her name, even if it was in passing.
> 
> [Crossposted to tumblr here.](https://roughentumble.tumblr.com/post/638185763882811392%22%22)

"Gibby!" Jaskier shouts with delight at the sight of his friend and rushes forward to greet her. His arms envelop her with ease, like it's a practiced motion, like he does this all the time, and she folds into the embrace with enthusiasm. "Oh, it's wonderful to see you again, dear heart." He says, and,

Dear heart.

_Dear heart._

The phrase ricochets around in Geralt's mind. Jaskier's used that endearment with him before, and it always sounded so weighty, so... meaningful. _Dear heart._ Doesn't sound like something you throw around for just anybody, but here it is, laid out casually at the feet of someone who he'd never even mentioned before. Someone who wasn't important enough to be the subject of even a passing tale to regale Geralt with on their many nights around a campfire.

He's struck a bit dumb as they continue to greet each other, hands clasped together in a friendly way, patting cheeks and ruffling hair, and he thinks about,

Jaskier, just after a winter apart, standing at a crossroads together, hand pressing only the faintest pressure into his shoulder, lips brushing his cheek so tenderly, words practically whispered right into his ear,

_I missed you, dear heart._

The realization comes slow, but hits hard all the same. It twists in his stomach, burrows slowly between his ribs and clenches down tight on his heart.

He doesn't mean as much to Jaskier as he thought.

He's always held value in touch, in words, he's never handed them out easily or casually. And logically, he was aware that Jaskier was his opposite in this regard. Bright and vibrant and eager to bend someone's ear or pull them in close, loose with his affections, Geralt... Geralt knew all that. But somewhere deep down, he'd thought that these were a bridge too far, even for Jaskier. That these tender moments were something of milestones to him as well. They'd felt too weighty, too momentous to be something casual. 

So, of course he'd been wrong. He'd known he was wrong, but he'd still held that hope, until... well. Until Jaskier handing out every tender moment he'd had to fight tooth and nail for with Geralt to someone in the middle of a crowded tavern, like it was nothing more than party favors. Like it was almost perfunctory-- that's what you did. 

Is this what it looks like? To watch Jaskier with him? Is this what they look like to outsiders? Geralt's never seen him with a friend before. 

This is just what he's like with friends. 

Geralt's not special.

And he knew that, really he did, but there's knowing something and there's _knowing something,_ and it's so hard to see someone else pulled into the force of gravity that is Jaskier's undivided affections. Given freely, with no expectations of reciprocation, because that's who he is, and,

and it never once mattered they were given to Geralt. 

His consternation must show on his face, because Gibby shifts nervously and asks if he's alright. Is he glaring? Must be, although he didn't mean to. Jaskier waves a hand dismissively. "He's fine, just not a big fan of loud places." It's either a smooth lie, or a genuine assumption, but either way the subject is dropped.

"So, Geralt, this is Gibby, and-- well, there'll be time for proper introductions once everyone's here, of course, but suffice to say we had more than a few classes together, and she was my unofficial partner in crime for some time." He ushers the two of them into their seats as he rambles, and Gibby titters goodnaturedly where it's appropriate, but otherwise seems uncomfortable under Geralt's gaze. Her eyes linger a bit too long on a few too many spots on his face that he knows hold things like scars, or unnatural eyes, or the hint of too-sharp canines, and he feels bad for it, truly. It can't be comfortable being on the receiving end of his glare, but he can't quite get his face to arrange itself any other way, so he turns the weight of his gaze to the side instead to inspect the room with unseeing eyes. 

Jaskier either doesn't notice the discomfort or decides the best way to deal with it is to ignore it in hopes that time and exposure will ease things. 

It doesn't.

More people filter in, join them at the table, and Geralt's introduced to each in turn, and then the group as a whole, but most of it goes in one ear and out the other. He feels bad about it-- Jaskier wanted him to meet his friends, he _wanted_ to meet Jaskier's friends-- but as soon as he gets his eyes to focus, sounds grow vague and muffled, and when he focuses on making out words he loses his ability to connect shapes with any sort of meaning. He spends most of the night with his nose in his ale-- overpriced and watered down, though it is.

He takes in snapshots, catalogs them away. He doesn't want to, but he can't stop himself, mind catching on every instance like a hang-nail, Jaskier's voice, 

_Dear,_

_Darling,_

_You are a wonder,_

hand on a knee,

an elbow,

a shoulder, 

tucked around a waist,

nose behind someone's ear, whispering conspiratorially,

eyes crinkling at the corners with delight.

There's a man to Geralt's immediate left that, through the haze of the evening and his newest revelation, he recognizes as a bit of a pompous man. Voice a little bit grating, and a little too interested in his own successes, prompting more than one eye roll from Geralt, but Jaskier takes it all in stride, turns everything around into a joke without making it at anyone's expense, pulls the conversation back on track without leaving him behind.

Because Jaskier is easy with affection, talented at making friends, 

even with people who aren't necessarily worth it.

* * *

  
He feels as stupid, as foolish, as every one-night-stand who thought Jaskier might stay in some no-name village for her. Of course he never meant anything. Of course they were just casual friends. Of course it was him, getting too intense and making assumptions.

Jaskier couldn't have meant anything bad by it, of course. Hadn't even intended to string anyone along, probably hadn't even realized he'd done so. He was just so funny and charming and personable and free with affection that it sucked you right in, he made you feel important, because for a minute, when those blue eyes lock on you, you _are_ important.

Just. No more important than anyone else he spots.

No more special than the next shiny, flashy thing to catch his attention.

No cruelty in it, just a shortness of attention span and a certain openness that most other folks've had beaten out of them by the world once they reach his age.

Jaskier isn't evil, isn't trying to be calculating by any means, but Geralt lays in bed and clutches a pillow to his chest and _aches_ anyway. Aches over how he'd let himself forget, aches over how he'd let himself be tricked, aches for the closeness he'd thought he had.

* * *

  
The next morning, Geralt gets up early, dons his armor, gets his bags together. He almost leaves, just like that, but-- well. Jaskier might get anxious if he just up and vanishes overnight, and Jaskier hadn't done anything _wrong_ precisely. Geralt doesn't mean this at a punishment. So he knocks on Jaskier's door, and after far too long, he answers, bleary and smelling faintly of vomit. 

Geralt comes up with a lie, says a contract came up suddenly, and Jaskier's face falls. "But-- we were supposed to..." He starts, leaning against the door frame for support, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say and heaves out a sigh. "Well. Alright. I suppose it can't be helped."

"I-- I liked meeting your friends." Geralt says, because Jaskier looks sad, and he doesn't want Jaskier to be sad. 

Jaskier perks up at that. "Oh, you did? That's wonderful, and they were _so_ eager to meet you too, they absolutely loved you!" Jaskier says enthusiastically.

Geralt thinks back on the space he'd been given all night. No one had bumped him, even accidentally. Almost none would meet his eye. 

"I'm glad," he says.

"I," Jaskier's voice sounds a bit odd, maybe a little over-eager as he reaches out to take Geralt's hand in his own, "I have a performance coming up in about a week. I don't know how long this contract will take you, but... if you can, I'd like to see you there."

He should say he can't make it. He should say it'll be a long contract. There isn't even a contract, it's a lie he's making up so he can skulk away and lick his wounds without anyone around to notice and call him out for being pathetic. Jaskier has friends here, they'll come to his performance, he doesn't need Geralt. Instead, what comes out is "We'll see."

Jaskier lights up even further, grips his hand even tighter. His eyes crinkle at the corner, just like they did the night before. "Well, do try your best to make it, my dear. And be safe, alright?" He leans in, and before Geralt can move, plants a kiss right on his cheek. "For good luck." He explains.

Geralt's cheek tingles from the contact. He wants-- he wants to shuck the swords from his back. He wants to explain the contract wasn't real, he wants to shoulder his way into Jaskier's room and press kisses to his mouth until he's red-lipped and rosy-cheeked, he wants-- he wants--

But he doesn't. Because it isn't like that, because Jaskier isn't his, because he doesn't mean it that way. Because Geralt's another in a long list of pining fools, waylaid by Jaskier's effortless charm. Because they're just acquaintances, and none of it ever meant anything.

Geralt steps back, and nods curtly, and Jaskier mimics the gesture in a way that's both mocking and completely fond, and that's that.

* * *

  
He does, actually, stumble on a contract, so he doesn't make a complete liar of himself. A whole stack of them, in fact. There's a little town less than a day's ride out from Oxenfurt, on the opposite side of the city from where he'd initially entered with Jaskier, and it seems they've got more than a few beasties vying for the land they're sitting on. 

Ghouls and rotfiends and drowners, oh my.

It's a straight week of shitty, tedious work. Of running himself ragged taking out minor but insistent infestations. Of maybe staying up later than he should, and waking up earlier as well, because in the back of his stupid mind, all he can think about is how Jaskier had asked him to come. As he decapitates a ghoul, the day of the performance in question, he knows-- knows it's not important that he personally shows up. That Jaskier just wants a friend there, anyone he knows, and-- well. He just happens to know Geralt. It's not important. It doesn't mean anything. He's thinking about how it doesn't mean anything when a different ghoul catches him right in the thigh, an impressive swipe of razor-sharp claws, bright-hot and agonizing. He curses under his breath and returns his mind to more pressing matters.

He should've taken the time to wallow, like he'd intended. He should've taken the time to pine and ache and be a miserable bastard. Instead he lost himself in the flow of his work, because--

because--

because Jaskier asked him to come back. 

And it was stupid, anyway, to run away, so he might as well keep right on being stupid by ignoring the issue entirely when he lays in bed at night.

The decision to walk back is split-second, but he's also been operating under the assumption that he was definitely going back, his mind and time itself seemingly on some sort of disconnect. He's back in the moment now, maybe, he thinks, though it feels like his brain's been shut off and his feet have been making their own decisions the past few days.

* * *

  
When he stumbles into the tavern-- the same one he'd met Jaskier's friends in, spent the night in-- he's absolutely drenched in rapidly congealing blood. Mostly ghoul, but some his own. Jaskier's on stage, and Geralt's seen him perform often enough that he has a vague idea of what his setlists normally look like, what the usual flow of a performance by Jaskier feels like. He gets the impression he must be more than halfway through already. A few people turn their heads and gasp when he gets closer, shuffle away from him in horror, but no one screams and he isn't kicked out, so he just stumbles over to the nearest wooden beam and leans against it for support. 

Jaskier's voice washes over him as he waits, world gone slightly fuzzy at the edges. He should've stopped somewhere to stitch up his side, but-- well. It certainly won't kill him, and... 

he didn't want to get there too late. Didn't want to miss this, have Jaskier think he didn't care. Which is a terrible, mindless decision, because they're really not that close, apparently, but, well... Story of his life. He cares too much-- he can't make himself stop caring too much.

It's over too soon, the music giving way to applause and Jaskier's expressions of gratitude, proclaiming the tavern to be a lovely crowd. Without a tune to follow, Geralt suddenly feels bone-deep tired, and his head droops a bit, but somehow-- probably all the blood, honestly-- Jaskier spots him through the throng of people. He pushes through them politely as he can, lute thrown over his shoulder, and makes a beeline for Geralt.

More people turn and gasp as they move out of the way, following Jaskier's line of sight, but he isn't deterred. "Geralt!" He announces brightly, "You made it!" He pauses then, and adds after a moment, "You're absolutely filthy. Didn't think to wash any of that off, darling?"

 _Darling._ The word leaves him feeling hot and cold at the same time. "Didn't want to miss your show." He mumbles, which is a little too honest, but he has a flesh wound, so he thinks he can be forgiven the momentary lapse in judgement. 

Jaskier lights up, of course. "Oh, aren't you sweet?" He asks rhetorically, then glances to the side and notices his audience's attention has continued to follow him. "The great White Wolf, back from another successful contract!" He announces as an explanation to attempt to quell their obvious discomfort, sweeping his hand out as if Geralt were something impressive to display, and not a man bleeding all over the floor. Ah, well, he'll clot soon enough anyway. "If you'd be so kind as to draw a bath for my companion, good sir." He calls out, locking eyes with one of the employees and reaching for the purse on his hip.

The man nods and Geralt huffs. "I can pay," he starts, but Jaskier waves him off.

"Nonsense. I just got paid, my treat."

Geralt rolls his eyes. "I also just got paid. I can afford my own bath."

Jaskier grabs his hand and pulls him away from the support beam, following after the person on his way to fill a tub. "You buy us a pitcher, then, or dessert. I'll get the bath." After a moment he screws up his face and glances down at their joined hands. "It's slimy."

"That'd be the blood."

"Ew." His nose scrunches up further, but he doesn't let go.

* * *

  
By the time the bath is filled, the blood's dried just enough that separating their hands is a bit of a hassle, and while Jaskier makes some (justified) disgusted squawking at the way their palms peel apart, Geralt's busy going on a bit of a downward spiral about the prolonged contact. It makes his heart do something funny in his chest, which he then has to chastise with a quick reminder that the gesture doesn't mean what his heart seems to think it means, which then leads to a _lovely_ (it is not actually lovely) sinking feeling in his stomach. 

"Well, hurry up and shuck the armor." Jaskier says, apparently having paid the man while Geralt was busy staring at his own palm. "You're not going to get any cleaner just standing there." He swirls his hand around in the bath, then uses the rim to scrape off the worst of the gunk. 

Geralt sets to work unbuckling what needs unbuckling, trying not to think too hard about Jaskier's little pet names and affectionate gestures. Jaskier watches out of the corner of his eye-- not perversely, so much as critically. "You're quiet." He says. Geralt flicks his eyes up, then back down to the buckle on his left side. His fingers slip off it, and he mutters a quiet curse as he attempts to wipe his hands off on his pants, to no avail.

"Aren't I always?" He responds, and manages to get the buckle on his second try with a liberal usage of fingernails. 

Jaskier tilts his head, considering. "Not quite like this, no."

Is he acting different? He doesn't feel like he's acting different. He almost looks up-- gets as far as seeing Jaskier's boots before he's looking back down again-- and wonders if maybe it's that he can't seem to make eye contact. His chest piece hits the floor and he works on peeling off his shirt, steadfastly ignoring Jaskier's scrutiny. 

"Did something happen on your last contract?" He asks, voice laced with concern.

 _Other than the chunk missing from my leg because I was too busy brooding?_ He thinks, but doesn't say. "No," he says instead, bending over to unlace his boots. Jaskier makes a little, appraising sort of hum, but doesn't press further. When Geralt straightens, Jaskier has his back turned, slipping his doublet off his shoulders and hanging it on a nearby hook. He stays like that as he rolls his shirt sleeves up to elbows, and Geralt takes the opportunity to shuck his pants(makes a mental note to patch the thigh, now in tatters) and slip into the waiting tub.

The hot water feels better than he'd like to admit, though he can't help the small hiss that escapes as it envelopes his thigh. Jaskier looks sharply over his shoulder at the sound, eyes narrowing. "You're hurt, aren't you?" He asks, turned to face Geralt now, hands on hips. "Should've known some of that blood was yours... I thought I told you not to do that. What did you waste the luck I gave you on?"

And really, Geralt has something for this, some quip he could come back with, but the memory of Jaskier's kiss-- just a little peck, nothing more, and yet-- makes his stomach twist uncomfortably and all words flee him. He grunts back, and Jaskier heaves an exasperated sigh. "Of course. How silly of me. I've seen the light." He says in a deadpan drawl, dragging over a stool so he can sit beside the tub. "One of these days I'm going to crack through that grumpy exterior and find the soft, gooey center I know you have." His voice is light, teasing, and he picks up a wash cloth and reaches for Geralt as if to help, and it's suddenly too _much._

Geralt doesn't know what it all means, except that it must not mean anything, because it seems to easily handed out to everyone, equally. He's not _so_ selfish that he feels entitled to some sort of special treatment, but he doesn't-- he doesn't know what it _means._ Just that it suddenly feels very hollow, and far too casual, and he can't stand the idea of those hands touching his skin casually. Like it means nothing. Like he's anybody. 

His body jerks out of the way to avoid Jaskier's touch of its own accord. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, sounding almost alarmed, and Geralt heaves out an answering sigh, dragging a hand down his face. His hair falls down around his bowed head like a clumpy, bloody curtain. He doesn't know how to act, now that the dynamic's shifted-- or now that he understands it better, anyway. He's suddenly very tired.

"Geralt, are you sure you're alright?" Back to concerned again, hand reaching for Geralt's shoulder, but he flinches away before they touch.

"I'm fine." He grits out.

"Dear heart,"

"Don't call me that." He bites back, bowing his head further. _Because I can't tell,_ he thinks to himself miserably, _I can't differentiate. I can't make myself remember how you mean it. It feels too real._

"But I--" Jaskier starts, only to get cut off once more.

"I said _don't._ " _I can't take it. I can't take it._

After a tense, quiet moment, Jaskier finally says "Alright." and he sounds defeated, but a weight lifts itself from Geralt's chest, knowing he won't have those words burrowing their way under his skin any longer.

Guilt starts to creep in as seconds tick past and the room remains silent but for the water gently lapping at the sides of the tub. Jaskier asked him to come, was excited about this performance, but Geralt had never asked what made this one special, and now here he was elbow deep in Geralt's mess and miserable. He feels his stomach twist itself into knots all over again. He hadn't meant--

He chews on the inside of his cheek, hunches in a little further. Reaches out tentatively, but keeps his head bowed and face obscured. "Could--" And even as quietly as he said it, his voice sounds almost painfully loud in the silence. "Could you pass the..." He trails off, but the soap is placed in his upturned palm anyway. He hums a short 'thank you' sort of sound, but he just holds the bar in his hands, examining it. Jaskier doesn't say anything. "You were good tonight." Barely more than a whisper, but it still feels so loud. Is there an echo, or is it just his imagination? "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner." The silence stretches on, and he almost thinks there won't be a response at all.

"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?" His voice is carefully even. 

It startles Geralt a bit, and he glances up, brow furrowed. "No, I... I wouldn't..." He looks away again, down at the water. It's too pink, saturated with blood. He'll never be able to get fully clean. "I liked it." He says again, unsure of how to say it in a way that proves he means it. "It's-- your voice is... soothing."

Jaskier huffs a sigh through his nose. "Well, in that case, thank you very much, Geralt." _Geralt._ Seems too impersonal, after everything, but it's what he'd asked for, isn't it? No right to complain about it now. "I'm glad you made it. Always nice to see a familiar face in the crowd at the end of a long set. Here, let me." He adds as an aside, plucking the bar out of Geralt's hands. Geralt ducks away once more, and Jaskier gets quieter, pleading gently. "Please? If... if you truly want me to leave I will, but... please let me help."

Geralt doesn't say anything for the longest time, and eventually Jaskier reaches out, presses a hand to his shoulder. He flinches again, but he doesn't pull away this time. It rubs up against him wrong, but Jaskier huffs a sigh of relief, and he wants-- he wants it to be like how it was. How he thought things were. 

He doesn't want Jaskier to be upset.

He allows the washcloth sliding across his back, and tries to pretend it doesn't just leave him cold.

* * *

"I never asked... what made this performance so special?"

"Hmm?" Jaskier's nails scratch over Geralt's scalp pleasantly, and he shrugs. "Oh, nothing in particular. I just wanted you here."

Something warm and sweet curls up low in Geralt's stomach. He tries to remind himself that it doesn't mean anything.

* * *

"Before we set out again," Jaskier says the next morning, once Geralt is clean and rested and the world seems more solid under his feet, "I have one more friend I'd like to see, and if you're willing, it would mean a lot to me if you'd come with me and meet her. We've been friends for the longest time, you see, and she's very dear to me, and honestly the group you met the other night were mostly drinking buddies, but she's an actual friend. A companion, you know? So..." There's a sinking feeling in Geralt's stomach as Jaskier continues to ramble, but Jaskier looks so _hopeful,_ hands clutched around his lute strap like that, eyes glittering... Geralt steels his resolve and agrees.

* * *

He berates himself on the short walk to her house. Honestly, if he can't handle meeting one friend-- _one_ \-- just because they're closer to Jaskier than he is, he's even more pathetic than he thought.

He can handle this. It won't be fun, but he can handle it.

* * *

They're gorgeous together. Her hair is blonde where his is russet, eyes a deep, honey brown where his are bright and blue, but otherwise they look alike in that way that only disgustingly gorgeous couples do. She matches his wit, and they share a passion, and once Jaskier gets over his seeming allergy to commitment, Geralt could envision him back here. With her. Making music together, a perfect little matching set. It works too well for it to go any other way. And even if they don't figure it out, well... they're very close. Best of friends.

He calls her dear heart and misery claws its way up Geralt's throat.

Geralt waits until Jaskier is in the middle of a story he's already heard to very quietly excuse himself for some fresh air. He steps out the front door and leans against the exterior wall of Priscilla's rented home.

 _How selfish,_ he thinks, standing alone outside the house of a woman he barely knows, waiting on a friend who's barely a friend, _how fucking selfish._

What right does he have to jealousy?

 _What right do I have?_ He thinks, almost wildly, an edge of hysteria to his thoughts, _what right do I have,_

_we're not even that close._

* * *

Apparently he takes too long, because eventually the front door creaks and Jaskier joins him outside, looking confused. "Is everything alright? What are you doing out here?"

"Fine." Geralt keeps his eyes closed and his head tilted back, pressed against the bricks. "Just needed some air."

"Air?" He parrots back incredulously, brow furrowed.

Geralt presses his head back against the bricks more firmly, so they dig into the back of his skull, little dull pinpricks of pain. "Priscilla's nice." He says, to avoid the topic of why he's outside, and because it's true. 

Jaskier lights up at that, steps a bit closer. "Isn't she just?"

"You make sense, the two of you." Something aches in his chest to say it.

"We do, don't we? Been two peas in a pod, ever since we first bumped into each other at a bardic competition. Oh, and she was _so_ excited to meet you, as well, what with all the stories and the songs n' such."

Geralt can't help but snort at that. "Mhmm, sure she was over the moon."

Jaskier's brow furrows again. "Well, what do you mean by that?"

He sighs. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"No, clearly something's wrong, I want to know what."

Certainly Priscilla had been made of stronger stuff than Jaskier's other bard friends, hadn't so much as flinched, but the rest... "Most people aren't you. They don't really feel much desire to fraternize with witchers." 

"Oh, that again." He says dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Well, these aren't most people, they're my friends, whom I've regaled with many a tale of both your bravery and your kindness."

"Lots of people you talk to still don't like witchers by the end."

"Are you doubting my abilities as a storyteller, or just as a judge of character?" he asks hotly, arms crossed over his chest. "I know them, they wouldn't--"

"I'm not a _complete_ fool, I _know_ when people are frightened of me." He bites out, harsher than he meant to. 

There's a beat of silence as he stares sullenly at his feet. "Oh, darling..." Jaskier says, tone pivoting to something sad and earnest as his hand reaches out.

"I asked you not to _call_ me that." He says, same harsh tone, because the endearment twists between his ribs, and Jaskier's hand falters, his shoulders slump a bit further.

"I thought-- I mean, you'd only mentioned... I thought you just didn't like dear heart, but I can... I can stop using others too, if you'd like." He sounds soft and confused and a little bit hurt, and Geralt groans, scrubs a hand down his face.

"Fine, it's-- fine. I am a fool, actually. Just... call me what you like."

"No, if it upsets you, I won't say it anymore, just tell me which ones to avoid and I will."

"It doesn't _matter,_ Jaskier, it's fine. I'm being stupid. I know that's just what you call people, so..."

Jaskier's entire face scrunches up this time, instead of just his brow. "What do you mean by that?"

He lifts a shoulder, fingers coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. "I mean what it sounds like. You don't mean anything by it. It doesn't matter. Say whatever you're going to say."

"No, you're-- you're phrasing it oddly. What do you _mean_ by that?" He reaches out to grasp at Geralt's wrist, tugging his hand away from his face to try and meet his eye, but Geralt just glances past him instead, eyeing the door.

"We should go back inside. Rude to keep someone waiting."

"You've never cared a day in your life what is or isn't rude."

"I care when the person's nice."

"You've never minded being rude to _me,_ though." He sounds indignant.

"I care when the person's nice." He repeats, trying to pull the conversation back into something approaching companionable ribbing.

Jaskier gasps theatrically, puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense, but blocks the way when Geralt tries to shoulder past. "She's not that nice, and you're not getting out of this conversation. You've been acting oddly for a while, and now the sudden offense over endearments-- what's _wrong?_ I'd like a straight answer, please."

 _Endearments._ As if there's anything endearing about him. He leans back against the wall with a groan, tipping his head back so it thunks gently against the brick. 

"It's not..." He tries to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. He becomes, suddenly, crushingly aware of how embarrassing his current predicament is. "It's... pathetic." He mutters, glancing to the side so he doesn't have to look at Jaskier.

"You don't have to worry, you know I won't judge, not if it's really important." Jaskier's hand comes to rest on Geralt's bicep, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Are you... worried about making friends, perhaps? Because we can get back together with them, give you another chance. Just because you got nervous--"

"It's not that." He replies, exasperated. "It's just... I... I get too attached. I forget who I am... _what_ I am," he says with no small amount of bitterness, "I forget my place."

"Geralt, you don't have a place!" Jaskier visibly cringes at his own words. "Ah, I meant-- of course you have a _place,_ you know, a place amongst friends n' such, I just meant... you're not lesser or anything like that."

"Right..." Geralt lets out a long sigh, scrubs a hand down his face once more. "It's just... rough being reminded that you're more important to me than I am to you." He clicks his tongue, mouth twisting into a frown. "Fuck, that sounds manipulative now I say it out loud. I don't mean it that way, it's-- fine, really. It's my fault anyway."

Jaskier inhales sharply and pulls back almost as if struck, mouth agape. "Wh-- Geralt, what are you talking about? You're very important to me!"

Geralt nods along, but he keeps his eyes trained on the ground. "Yeah, like your drinking buddies are important, and the barkeep you know by name is important, and... and everyone is important to you. I know. It's just... it's different for me. But really, it's my fault, I'll... I'll get the moping out of my system eventually, alright?"

"Geralt, I genuinely have no clue what you're talking about, you're incredibly dear to me."

He can't help the snort that escapes at that, but every endearment just stabs him somewhere deep now, brings with it echos of every other time he's said it, like the words meant nothing. Probably because they didn't. "Yeah, _dear._ Dear heart. I get it." He all but mumbles.

He can see Jaskier's hackles start to raise, out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head a bit more to escape having to look-- having to see-- "What's wrong with--"

"Nothing." He says before Jaskier can get started. "Nothing wrong with it at all. I just... _I_ built it up to be something it wasn't, in my head, and-- and I know _I'm_ the one in the wrong for it, for making something out of nothing, for getting a scrap of kindness and assuming it had some deeper hidden meaning, when clearly you're just... a nice person. I'm not being accusatory-- not trying to be, anyway."

"Geralt," he says, and he sounds devastated, but that can't... that can't be right, because... _because_ \-- he reaches out and grabs Geralt by the shoulders, tries to meet his eyes, but he keeps his head turned away, "where is this even _coming_ from? I-- wait, is this because I called my friends dear heart as well? At the tavern?" He sounds incredulous, and something about the tone makes heat rise in Geralt's cheeks. He scowls and tries to push the feeling down.

"I just thought... I was a fool. I thought you only... I thought... that maybe that kind of closeness was... different for you too, but I'm-- I'm just realizing it wasn't, and I know it's foolish, but it just kind of... it hurts, alright? So just stop trying to say that it's equal, because I know it's more to me, I know I'm... being more." 

Jaskier huffs and grips him tighter, tries once more, unsuccessfully, to catch his eye. "If you'd just _listen_ to me, and stop cutting me off, you'd hear what I'm trying to say, which is--"

"Stop--" 

He just gets louder, grips tighter, " _Which is_ that you've got it all wrong, you _do_ matter to me. I consider you one of my dearest friends--"

"Just _stop,_ stop trying to--"

"And I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't. I never meant--"

The words come tumbling out so fast he doesn't have the time to think about what he's saying, or what he really means by it, he's too desperate to get Jaskier to _stop._ His mind casts back, reuses the metaphor it did when he was alone in his room that first night, and he says, "Yeah, Jaskier, I know, I know you never _meant_ it, you never _mean_ to, I'm just like every other two-bit fool you've left behind in every single shitty town who thought she was special just because you smiled at her, alright? And I'm just realizing that, even though I should've known it didn't mean anything special, because you're nice to _everyone._ But I didn't, and I let myself think it mattered, like a _fool,_ let myself think I was more important than I was, so just-- hurry up and get your shit together and go kiss Priscilla," Jaskier echoes her name, sounding somewhere between mystified and scandalized, but Geralt barrels forwards, "and leave me behind like every other broken heart you've left strewn across the continent." 

"Geralt," miserable, he sounds miserable,

The words stick in his throat, but he forces them out anyway. "And I'm not, I'm not mad at you for being you, or for saying it, or thinking we were some sort of friends, you're-- you're wonderful. That's the problem, see, you're wonderful, I'm mad at _myself_ for reading into it, thinking it meant something _more_ where clearly it--"

Suddenly, hands, strong and sure, are tangled in his hair, grabbing at him, forcing his head forward to finally face Jaskier, and he's tugged down into a kiss. It's little more than the firm press of Jaskier's mouth to his, but it brings his mind and his speech to a screeching halt anyway. 

All too soon Jaskier is pulling away, as Geralt sits there, stock-still and dumbfounded. "Of course it means something," he says, quietly into the air between them but no less emphatically for it, "of course it does. It's always meant something when I say it to you." His hands slide forward, come around to cup at Geralt's jaw. "Who else do I travel with, like I travel with you? Who is it I wait for all winter? The pet names, the endearments, all those sweet words-- of course they mean something when I say them to _you,_ darling."

He lets out a sound distressingly close to a whine, but Jaskier is right there, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in close for another kiss. Geralt's hands come up this time, clutching at Jaskier's back, feeling the warmth of him through the doublet, and he tugs him in close, so they're pressed chest to chest. He kisses Jaskier until he's dizzy with it, his mind reeling, then pulls away just so he can tuck his face into Jaskier's neck and breathe deep, grounding himself. 

Jaskier's runs a hand through his hair, petting him gently and pressing him that much closer. "My dear, foolish witcher..." he mumbles fondly.

"I thought--" Jaskier shushes him, murmurs a soft _'I know'_ against his temple, then tucks his own face into Geralt's neck. Geralt marvels at the feel of him in his hands, at the fact he knows what Jaskier feels like against his mouth, at the fact that this is something he can have, and he can't resist the urge to press a kiss into Jaskier's skin. 

He giggles a bit and shies away, as if tickled, and Geralt tucks in closer, presses another kiss to the same spot, this one open-mouthed and sucking. Jaskier lets out an appreciative hum and tilts his head away to open up more space, fingers tracing nonsense patterns across Geralt's shoulders. "Fuck, that's nice... love you so much, darling."

A wounded noise works its way out of his throat, and his chest feels fit to bursting. "I love you too," he says, kissing a desperate line up Jaskier's neck, "I love you, gods, I love you," he repeats between kisses, over and over, until their lips connect again, as if he could somehow press the love into Jaskier's skin, sink the bone-deep truth of it into him in a way it could never leave or be misunderstood.

He walks Jaskier back and presses him up against the wall, intent on kissing him senseless, when he hears someone behind him clear their throat. Both of their heads snap to the side to find Priscilla lounging against the door frame, eyebrow raised and lips upturned. "Do you boys plan on coming back inside, or are we cutting this lunch date short?"

Geralt feels bad about eating into so much of her afternoon with his own problems, and is instantly chastened by her words, but Jaskier seems to hold none of the same reservations, eyes crinkling at the corner happily. "Oh, we'd love to. Good timing, by the way."

"I waited until the sounds of arguing stopped, but apparently I didn't wait long enough." She looks faintly amused.

"He was the one who pushed the issue..." Geralt mutters, face heating up once more.

"Mm, sounds about right. He's a little hellion when he wants to be."

"A compliment, I'm sure." He says brightly, and she rolls her eyes fondly and disappears back into the house, front door left ajar for them to follow after.

Jaskier turns back to Geralt, smiling from ear to ear, and takes his hand in his own. "We can talk more about this, and what it means for us, later." He presses a kiss to Geralt's cheek. "I do love you, dearest." He says quietly, then starts towards the door, tugging Geralt along after him. "For now, let's go finish visiting our friend, hmm? We can head back to our room after that."

Dearest. Our friend. _Our_ room. Geralt's throat gets tight, and he nods weakly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that. As long as you're with me."

"Of course I'm with you." Jaskier's smile gets a bit softer, just that much fonder, and Geralt falls into step beside him.


End file.
